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Thursday, August 14, 2014

I foolishly thought the war was over, but it's never over
and will never be over. I just got complacent.

In 2008, I wrote a story called Jihad. It's a fictional
story inspired by real events. In it, a couple's home is invaded by mice. At
first the husband makes a halfhearted effort to kill a few while his wife takes
the brunt of the invasion. In one scene, she starts the lawn mower and is
covered with the chopped up remains of baby mice, poop and nest that was built
above the fan on top of the machine. She ran a few feet and puked on the lawn.
Only when the husbands Xbox cables were chewed did he kick it into high gear
and start actively trying to kill the hoard.

If you ever get a chance to read it, know that all of the
scenes that describe what the mice chewed up and all the interactions in the
first part of the story actually happened, including the lawn mower scene with
my wife. Only when the husband slips into madness do I go off script and into
fiction. That one year, starting at the end of summer and going through the
winter, I killed 54 mice over a nine-month period.

As I described in the story, I went to Home Depot and stared
at the wall of death. So many choices and I tried them all, except for poison.
We had dogs at the time that ate mice if the found them and were worried about
unintended consequences. But every form of trap available at the time got a
proper field test in casa McCoy. In the end, I found that the most successful
trap was the traditional wooden based, spring-loaded mousetrap with peanut
butter as bait. In the intervening years I've never had to set out more than
five or six traps and mostly in the garage and almost always in the winter.

A few days ago, my wife noticed some mouse poop in the
closet we built over our garage. I agreed to set some traps and went back to my
old reliable set up. Just to make sure I nipped this minor incursion in the
bud, I set out eight traps. The next day, nothing. The day after that, I had
one dead and the rest of the traps licked clean.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen the peanut butter cleaned
off a trap, but I’d never seen eight traps licked clean to the point where the
copper catches shined brighter than when I bought them. It was a minor set back
and I took it in stride. I tripped the traps and bent the catches where the
holding bar hooks on so that they were much more sensitive and re-baited the
remaining seven. The next day, I had another dead mouse, but the other six
traps were at least partially licked clean. That was this morning, or
technically yesterday morning as it is now after midnight. I'd hoped to catch
more and it bothered me that the traps seemed so ineffective, but I shrugged it
off and went to work.

At 3:00 PM, I got a text from my daughter saying she had a
mouse in her room. A mouse. In broad daylight. Running around her room. I
thought she was putting me on, but she assured me she was not. I told her I
would take care of it when I got home.

Of course it was nowhere to be seen by the time I arrived,
but only a few hours later at bedtime, my daughters caught it under a glass.
They wanted me to let it go. I was irritated, but not angry and I agreed. I
walked all the way passed the end of my driveway and chucked it into the
neighbors yard and went to get ready for bed.

In the finale of my story, I had a huge mass of mice attack
the main character by chewing a hole in the ceiling and dropping on top of him.
The character was surprised, not expecting them to be Airborne qualified. Death
from above.

At approximately 10:30 this evening, I woke to the my wife's
cry of "It's on me!". She jumped up from bed and I followed, unsure
what was happening. One of the damned things must have been climbing above her
and dropped on her head. When she jumped up, it went down her shirt. She shook
it free and it landed on the bed. By the time I was awake enough to react, it
dashed to the floor and under the bed.

Only then did she tell me that after I had released the one
little monster into the wild, the girls saw two more in their room. What the
actual fuck! I wasn't mad at her for not telling me, but I was shocked at the
number of mice so brazenly running around my house. The winter of my Jihad,
when I racked up the 54 kills, I only ever saw one in broad daylight, and that
was in the garage, never inside my house. Now in one night, we spotted at least
three and possibly four with one little bastard making moves on my wife.

I felt a small piece of the madness creep over me that I had
imbued my fictional character with back in 2008. The Home Depot was closed, but
Walmart was open 24/7. After a quick consultation with my wife, we agreed that
it was time for poison. The traps were just not getting the job done. These
little insurgent bastards had been trained in counter trap warfare. Our two
Greater Swiss Mountain dogs had been sleeping in our room during the attack and
did nothing. At no time in their lives have they ever shown the slightest
indication that they are willing to hunt anything, but after a quick Google
search, I found articles that set my mind at ease. Even if they suddenly showed
interest and actually found one of the dead mice, it would take a lot of them
to make the dogs sick.

I got to Walmart at 11:00 PM. It's Thursday night and I was
still groggy. The scene was surreal. There were over fifty cars in the lot and as I pulled up, a
group of a dozen teens were walking away with bags in both hands heading to
some unknown destination. I walked inside and was relieved to find that most of
the people in the store were there to restock the shelves. There is no wall of
death. It’s not even an isle, just the last one fifth of an isle, but it had
what I needed. There were enclosed poison baits and sticky paper next to the
traditional traps that had so recently failed me. I was through playing around
and bought two-dozen of each. When I got home I placed four of the poison baits
in the garage, one in a kitchen cabinet, four in the closet above the garage,
one under our bed and one in my daughters closet. I also laid out glue traps,
two in the closet and two under our bed and one in my daughter's closet.

It's now past one in the morning. I don’t feel sleepy. The
thought of those little bastards crawling across my bed at night disturbs me.
Mice have never bothered me beyond the desire to not have them destroying my
stuff or poop in my kitchen. This is the first time I ever felt creeped out. I
accepted the fact that spiders and other bugs crawl over me occasionally at
night and while it isn’t a pleasant notion, it never kept me awake. But a mouse
dropping on my head or crawling on my face? When the fuck did they get so
brave? Even if they aren't afraid of us, they have no idea those two 90 pound
carnivores are gentle giants.

So the war that never ends has made it’s way into my
family's bedrooms, and I will bring pain and death upon my enemy for their
trespass, but tonight, they have won the psychological war.

Monday, August 11, 2014

I've had the pleasure of listening to the audio version of
the two-volume autobiography of Mark Twain. These are large volumes and not
without repetition, yet I do not hesitate to recommend to every Twain fan and especially
every person that calls themselves a writer to either read or listen to these books.
I've pasted the following passage from volume two. It is a relatively short
read and well worth your time. In it, Twain describes the effort required to
secure author copyright law in the United States and his significant
contribution thereto (I do not fail to see the irony). If the time required to read 3,600 words is too great, at least do yourself the favor of skipping to the Q&A portion at the end, you will not be sorry.

I went to Washington, a fortnight ago, at the suggestion of
the Committee of the Copyright League, to help nurse the amended bill through
its initial examination by the Patent Committees of the House and the Senate.
Mr. Paine made the trip with me. We had the League Committee for company on
board the train—a committee composed of two publishers, a poet, and Robert
Underwood Johnson. The publishers were William Appleton and George Haven
Putnam, fine men, both, and choice examples of their calling. The poet was Mr.
Bowker. No, I am in error; it was two publishers and two poets, for Underwood
Johnson is himself a poet, though that is not his regular line; neither is it Bowker’s;
both of these singers earn their bread by surer handicrafts. They live upon
salaries—Johnson as one of the editors of the Century Magazine, Bowker as
something connected with a railroad. Both of these poets have published modest
volumes of verse, and possess copies; both are hard workers for an enlarged
literary copyright, and have given their steady and earnest labors to this
cause in the Copyright League for years without salary, and without having
any
pecuniary interest in the proposed lengthened term of literary
copyright. I believe that if we could go back over the past two centuries since
England waylaid the author, in Queen Anne’s time, and robbed him of his poor
little rights, we should find that from that day to this the long struggle to regain
those rights for the author has been conducted, almost exclusively, not by the
authors who would be benefited by the restoration, but by minor poets whose
poems were perishable and evanescent; poets who had little or no use for a
copyright of any kind, let alone an extended one. These benefactors, so far as
my knowledge and experience go, never get any real help from the small handful
of authors who could be pecuniarily benefited by a liberal life-term for books.
When I went to Washington sixteen years ago, to help just such a committee as
this one in the nursing of an international copyright bill through the House of
Representatives, James Russell Lowell, I think, was the only author who
appeared there whose books promised to outlive the forty-two-year limit—except
myself. At the hearing before the Patent Committee of the Senate, Mr. Lowell appeared just once,
for fifteen minutes. He made a strong and striking speech, then disappeared,
and was seen no more. Howells didn’t come; Edward Everett Hale didn’t come;
Thomas Bailey Aldrich didn’t come; as I have already said, none of the ten or
twenty authors personally and really interested in getting justice for American
and foreign authors came forward to assist, except Lowell and myself. Underwood
Johnson was of the League Committee in that old day. The international bill was
passed, and became law. This victory was attributed to Johnson, and the
grateful French Government decorated him with the Legion of Honor for it, and
he still wears in his buttonhole that red thread which distinguishes the member
of the Legion of Honor from that remnant of the human race who have failed to
get it. It makes me jealous; it makes me spiteful toward Underwood Johnson; it
embitters me against the French; for Underwood Johnson didn’t win that victory,
I did it myself. When a legislative body is not acquainted with the interests
and rights and wrongs of authorship, these things must be explained to the
members before they can be expected to understand the situation; explaining by documents is not worth while; no
member can find time to read them; explaining by speeches before a hard-worked
committee is not worth while, for the committee cannot in turn convey the
acquired information to the rest of the House otherwise than by speeches, and
speeches are not effective when they concern a matter in which the House feels
no interest. Copyright is a thing, which all legislative bodies are ignorant of
and unfamiliar with, and there is only one way to get a copyright measure
through Congress—that is by canvassing the Congress individual by individual,
and enlightening each in his turn. I did that sixteen years ago. I did not go
to the homes, hotels, and boarding-houses of the members, for that would have
taken three months. Sunset Cox smuggled me in on the floor of the House, where
of course I had no right to be and would have been turned out if the
sergeant-at-arms had chosen to see me; but neither the sergeant nor the Speaker
paid any attention to me, and so I got into no trouble. Sunset Cox supplied me
with Democrats, two and three and four at a time; Mr. John D. Long supplied me
with Republicans, and in three or four hours I had had personal contact
and conversation with
almost every member of the House. As argument I used only two or three
essential points. It was not difficult to make them clear and comprehensible,
and I made them so. The commonest remark that fell upon my ear, all through
those hours, was— “I have had no time to examine this matter, Mr. Clemens, and
I did not understand it before, but I will vote for the bill now.” The bill
went through, and a grateful France decorated Underwood Johnson, the poet.
However I suppose I ought to be fair, and for this once I will be. It was
because of the existence and industries of Underwood Johnson that an
international copyright bill was devised and brought before Congress. But for
Underwood Johnson, there would have been no bill; but for the bill I should not
have been there—and so, a fair and righteous distribution of the honors requires
that Underwood Johnson get half the credit and I the other half. If he will
give me half of his red thread I will withdraw from him all bitterness, all
animosity, all spitefulness, all envy. This new bill proposes to change the
present legal life of a book (which is forty-two years) to the author’s
life and fifty years after. Underwood is working as hard for it as ever. He and
Bowker appeared before the double committee on the first day’s hearing and made
speeches; Howells was there also, not to speak, but in order that the ten or
twenty American authors actually interested in extension of copyright might
have a representation in the flesh. I did not attend that first sitting, but I
attended next day’s sitting, at five in the afternoon, and spoke. The place was
crowded, and the two committees had been patiently listening to reasonings and
wranglings all day long, and they had listened to the like the whole of the
previous day. When Congressmen perform their whole duty in this devoted way the
spectacle furnishes the outsider a new light on the legislator’s life, and with
it a very sincere admiration for men who can labor like that in causes which
cannot interest them, and must, of necessity, bore them. I did not go to
Washington to make a speech. The speech was merely an incident, an accident,
and not a part of the committee’s previously arranged program. My business in
Washington, and my desire, was to put in force a private project of my own—a
repetition of my industries of sixteen years before: I wanted to talk
to the members of the House, man to man. Mr. Speaker Cannon would not
overstrain his powers by smuggling me into the House, but he said he would make
a fair compromise in the interests of my mission; he would give me his private
room in the Capitol, and also his colored messenger to run errands for me. This
was very convenient. It was really better than exploiting my canvass on the
floor of the House. The colored servant was Neal. I had known him sixteen years
before, when I was lobbying for the international bill. Neal has served a
procession of Speakers of the House, which stretches back without a break for
forty years. He knows every member as well as he knows the members of his own
family. Before I had talked with any more than twenty members I perceived that
they felt no hostility toward the extension of literary copyright—that is to
say, book copyright—but were not at all pleased with the bill’s attempt to
intrude mechanical musical devices, and other things whose interests belong in
the Patent Office and had no proper connection with copyright. As soon as I
felt convinced that this was really and truly the attitude of the House toward
the bill I ceased from urging the whole bill and thenceforth urged only the literary end
of it. I talked with a hundred and eighty members of Congress that day, and
satisfied myself that if the musical feature of the bill could be eliminated
the bill would pass. Afterward I talked with the chairmen of the Senate and
House Committees that had the bill in charge, and found that they were tired of
the music, and were already considering a project to report the bill with the
musical foolishness left out. I ceased from my labors then, leaving two hundred
and six members uncanvassed, the temper of the hundred and eighty already
canvassed convincing me that the temper of the House was friendly enough toward
literary copyright and could be depended upon to remain so without any further
persuasions of mine.

December 19, 1906 Mr. Clemens gives his reasons
for insisting upon an extension of the Copyright Bill—arranged in the
form of an interview with a member of Congress. . . . . That was an odd mission
of mine to Washington. I arrive at this deduction by a critical examination of
the matters involved in it. Instead of compacting them into a solid block, and
thus confusing and dimming them, I will try to make them clear by separating
them through the handy process of question and answer. I will imagine myself as
undergoing examination by a member of Congress who desires to qualify himself
to vote upon the Copyright Bill by inquiring into the particulars of the
interests involved.

Question. Mr. Clemens, you are here to represent—whom?
Answer. The authors.

Q. All authors? A. No. There are perhaps ten thousand
American authors, but I have appointed myself to represent only twenty-five of
them.

Q. Why only twenty-five out of the ten thousand? A. Because
all but the twenty-five are amply protected by the copyright law now in
existence.

Q. How do you mean? A. The new bill proposes to extend the
copyright-life of a book beyond the existing limit, which is forty-two years.
It is possible that the books of twenty-five living authors may still be
selling profitably when they reach the age of forty-two years; the books of the
other ten thousand, amounting to an annual output of five or six thousand
volumes, will all be dead and forgotten long before the forty-two-year limit is
reached; therefore of our ten thousand authors only twenty-five are pecuniarily
interested in an extension of the existing copyright limit.

Q. Mr. Clemens, are there other persons interested in the
making of books, and pecuniarily affected by copyright laws? A. Yes. To begin
with, the publishers.

Q. How many publishers are there? A. About three hundred.
They publish an annual output of five or six thousand new books, and presumably the result is an average profit of a thousand dollars upon
each—say an aggregate of five or six million dollars; presumably also, they get
as much more out of books whose copyrights are dead, and on which they pay no
royalties to authors or their families, but filch the author’s share and add it
to their own.

Q. It is not the authors, then, that get the bulk of the
money resulting from authorship? A. No. Far from it! The ten thousand cannot be
expected to produce, each, more than half a book a year. Authorship is not
their trade. If one of these makes a thousand dollars out of his book—and
sometimes he does—it takes him two years to do it; while he is making five
hundred dollars out of his book his publisher may publish forty other books,
and make forty thousand dollars.

Q. By this it would appear that authorship is mainly
important to the publisher, not to the author? A. It is true. Pecuniarily, no
one concerned is perhaps so little interested in authorship as are our ten
thousand authors. Fortunately for them, they do not get their living by
authorship; they get it in other and securer ways; with them authorship is a side issue, a
pastime.

Q. Very well then, as I understand it authorship is worth
several millions a year to publishers, and worth next to nothing to the main
body of authors. Is that it? A. Yes, that is what I am meaning.

Q. Then it seems plain that authorship is one of the most
trifling of all imaginable trades. I cannot call to mind another trade that
matches it for pecuniary humbleness. Do you know of one? A. No—none except
whitewashing fences; and even that would be a better trade, if you could
exercise it in the winter as well as in the summer.

Q. There are still others who are pecuniarily interested in
the making of books? Name them. A. At a guess, two thousand book-compositors,
earning a wage of two million and a half dollars a year—

Q. Go on. A. Some hundreds of printing-press men and boys—

Q. Proceed. A. Some hundreds or thousands of
binders,paper-makers and printing-ink manufacturers.

Q. Go on. A. Some hundreds of box-makers, packers, porters,
and employees of the railways and express companies.

Q. You have footed up a formidable army: Mr. Clemens, is
there anybody in the country who is not pecuniarily interested in the making of
books? A. Yes sir—the authors. The ten thousand.

Q. Let us now get back to the beginning and add up results.
Some thousands of persons and their families are greatly and importantly
interested in the making of books; you have granted that these thousands are
all well protected by the existing copyright law—protected beyond possibility
of hurt; you have conceded that all of the ten thousand authors except the
specialized twenty-five, are amply protected by the law as it stands, since
their books will never live out the forty-two-year limit, and could therefore
not be advantaged by extending it. Now then, I wish to ask you a
serious question. You have proven that in representing the twenty-five you
represent the smallest interest, the poorest little interest, the most
microscopic interest, that has ever intruded itself upon the attention of a
legislative body in this age or any other. This interest has been intruding and
complaining, persistently, for two centuries, in England and America, and in
that period has wasted the valuable time of Parliaments and Congresses—time so
valuable, so precious, that if you should reduce that valuable time to dollars
and cents the aggregate would amount to millions and millions of dollars, and
would build fifty battleships and equip for war a hundred thousand soldiers.
Mr. Clemens, how do you excuse the continued and persistent agitation of this
matter?

A. I excuse it for reasons, which seem to me to justify it. In the
first place, upon the grounds of our moral law. Our moral laws endow us with
certain rights; one of these is the right to hold and enjoy, unchallenged and
unmolested, property created by our honest industries; and this endowment is
not discriminated, but comes to us all alike, all in equal measure. It does
not give this property-right to publisher, butcher, land-owner, corporation,
shoemaker, tailor, and deny it to the author; it includes the author. It is
every man’s right—his right, and not a benevolence conferred upon him by
legislatures. The moral law existed before copyright, and in authority
supersedes any usurping statute that can be inflicted by the legislature.
Legislatures can by force of arbitrary power rob an author by statute, but no
casuistry can keep that robbery from being a crime. It is lawful crime,
legalized crime, but it remains crime just the same. The clause in the
Constitution of the United States which denies perpetual property in an
author’s book is a crime, and an excuser and defender and propagator of
crime—and the fact that it is part of the Constitution in no wise relieves it
from that stain, and from merited contempt. The publisher who withholds royalty
from a book that has passed the forty-two-year limit under the plea that the
Constitution and Congress have granted him permission to commit this degraded
crime is not any less a thief than he would be if the property which he is
stealing was protected property. In one of our cities there is a firm of
publishers that make and sell copyright-expired books only. There are several partners in the firm, and one
of them told a friend of mine that his share of the profits of this nefarious
trade amounts to forty thousand dollars a year. That person ranks as a most
respectable man, but to my mind he belongs in jail, with the other thieves. The
late Baron Tauchnitz was the only publisher I have ever known who was above
seizing and using property which did not belong to him, the only publisher I
have known in whose reach the author’s widow and orphan could safely leave
unwatched their poor little literary belongings. Yet the name he commonly went
by, in an ignorant world, was “that pirate!” I personally know that he would
not put upon his book-list a book which he had not bought and paid for, whether
its copyright was alive or was dead. He knew that no Constitution and no
statute can take away perpetual property-right in an author’s book, but can only
act as a thief’s confederate and by brute force protect the thief while he
steals it. I know of no American publisher who is not a pirate; I will gamble
that if there is a publisher anywhere who is not a pirate it is Tauchnitz’s
son. With your permission I will venture yet another reason for not being ashamed to come here in the interest of that
grotesquely small band—the twenty-five authors who could be benefited by the
requested extension of the copyright limit to the life of the author and fifty
years after. It is this: almost the most prodigious asset of a country, and
perhaps its most precious possession, is its native literary product—when that
product is fine and noble and enduring. Whence comes this enduring literature?
It comes from the twenty-five, and from no other source! In the course of a
century—and not in any briefer time—the contemporaneous twenty-five may produce
from their number one or two, or three, authors whose books can outlast a
hundred years. It will take the recurrent successors of the twenty-five several
centuries to build a hundred imperishable books; those books become the
recognized classics of that country, and are pointed to by the nation with
exultant and eloquent pride. Am I claiming too much when I claim that such a
literature is a country’s most valuable and most precious possession? I think
not. Nations pride themselves upon the splendors of their deeds of arms,
statesmanship, conquest; and when they can point back, century after century, and age after age, to the
far-stretching perspective of a great history, their pride is beyond expression
in words; but it all exists by grace of one thing—one thing alone—the country’s
literature. It is a country’s literature that preserves the country’s
achievements, which would otherwise perish from the memories of men. When we
call to mind that stately line— “The glory that was Greece, and the grandeur
that was Rome”—we should remember with respect and with reverence that if the
great literatures of Greece and Rome had by some catastrophe been blotted out,
the inspiring histories of those countries would be vacant to the world to-day;
the lessons which they left behind, and which have been the guide and teacher
of the world for centuries upon centuries would have been as utterly lost to us
as if they had never had an existence. It is because of the great literatures
of the ancient world, and because of those literatures alone, that the poet can
sing of the glory that was Greece and the grandeur that was Rome, and thrill us
with the sublimity of his words. It is not foreign literatures that sing a
country’s glories and give them immortality—only the country’s own
literature will perform that priceless service. It were worth a Congress’s
while to spend upon a copyright law time worth the cost of even a hundred
battleships if the result of it might some day be the breeding and nourishing
of a Shakespeare. Italy has many battleships; she has many possessions, which
she is proud of, but far and away above them all she holds in pride one incomparable
possession, one name—DANTE! I represent only twenty-five persons, it is true;
only twenty-five out of eighty-five millions; considered commercially I
represent the meanest interest that could ever intrude itself upon the time and
attention of Congresses and Parliaments, in this age or in any future one, but
I am not ashamed of my mission.